As Strauss year draws towards
a close, the Philharmonia under Juraj Valčuha offered a rather lovely pendant, two
of his own works – the Rosenkavalier
Suite sort of counts – paired with excerpts from an opera whose premiere he
conducted, and an early masterpiece from the composer he, rightly, adored above
all others. I still have two major performances to go: both Der Rosenkavalier and Elektra in Dresden (on which I shall
report back soon), but this certainly kept me going in the meantime.

So extraordinarily
accomplished and characteristic is Don
Juan that we can forget how early a work it is; indeed, Strauss was only
three years older than Mozart was when he composed his Ninth Piano Concerto.
There was certainly nothing jejune to this account from Valčuha’s and the
Phiharmonia. The opening was precise, not pedantic, its vitality and indeed
vitalism aided by the greatest orchestral clarity and cultivation. Immediately
afterwards, Valčuha displayed a commendable, meaningful flexibility that marked
out this performance as integrative, in a well-nigh Wagnerian, musico-dramatic
sense, rather than streamlined and shoehorned. Perhaps there was the occasional
transition which might have been smoother still, but that is really to
nit-pick, and perhaps to attempt a trade off with the keen sense of drama
achieved. There was a beautifully judged early sunset, always a pertinent
Straussian test; this was noble, without a hint of sentimentality, just as the
Lenau-Strauss hero should be. A deep string sound worked wonders, passages with
violas, cellos, and basses together reminding us that there are gains as well
as losses to the now-unfashionable arrangement that has them seated together.
Horns at that moment, followed by
violins in all their Straussian glory, told us what mattered about this hero.
His materialist death, in all its
necessary instrumental detail, could not eclipse that memory.

As Jonathan Biss was about to
come on stage for the concerto, Mitsuko Uchida crept into the Stalls: quite an
endorsement, by any standards. The visible keenness of her listening and the
generosity of her response would almost have been worth the price of admission
in themselves. I was perhaps a little less enamoured with Biss’s performance,
although there was certainly much to admire. Valčuha proved himself an expert ‘accompanist’,
the opening to the first movement at least as alert as that to Don Juan. The Philharmonia offered
wonderfully cultivated playing once again, deftly shaped by the conductor. Biss
responded with clear, at times even pearly tone, my principal reservation about
this movement simply being the tempo: was it perhaps a little too hurried? One
might argue that this is a young man’s music, but I am not sure what that
proves; in any case, does not all of Mozart’s music fall into that category? There
was no quarrel to be had, though, with the shaping of phrases. Form was very
clearly defined; particularly noticeable was the sense of kinship with older
concerto forms in the orchestral tutti. Although the second movement was again
on the swift side, it did not feel hurried. Operatic sadness and import were
well judged. Likewise, there was a fine sense of musico-dramatic impetus,
bringing us perhaps closer to Strauss than one might have thought, and
certainly reminding us of another of his enthusiasms, the operas of Gluck.
Above all, harmonic rhythm was understood and communicated. The finale lifted
the spirits with a good nature to rival Haydn’s. Although its minuet was
certainly graceful, Biss was perhaps a little cool. There was no doubting,
however, his technique; repeated notes, for instance, were an object lesson in
performance.

It would take a sterner,
steelier soul than mine to resist the call of those opening horns in the
Overture to Hänsel und Gretel,
especially when so tenderly played – the German weich seems so apt here – and so warmly responded to. I was drawn
in, just as if in the opera house. Valčuha thereafter served up a lovable pot
pourri, perhaps not quite so symphonic as when I heard Sir Colin Davis conduct the opera at Covent Garden, but that is a comparison
unduly odious. Olena Tokar, whom I had previously admired in Das Liebesverbot in Leipzig, and
Kai Rüütel, whom I heard as Echo in this opera at its Royal Opera revival, both impressed in the opening duet and beyond. Voices
and characters were sharply differentiated, Valčuha showing himself to be an
operatic ‘natural’. (He is, I later learned, due this season to conduct Parsifal in Budapest, Turandot in Naples, and Jenůfa in Bologna.) And yes, your stern
Beckmesser melted in the dance song. The Sandman’s Song followed, Tokar
benefiting from breathtaking orchestral stillness at its opening; this
certainly had that necessary sense of magic. The sincerity of Tokar’s delivery,
when she told of angels bringing down sweet dreams from heaven, brought at
least one tear to my eye. Following the Prayer, the siblings left the stage for
the concluding Dream Pantomime, whose shaping was undoubtedly symphonic,
Wagnerian brass and all. If Valčuha lingered just a little long towards the
end, it was a fault readily forgiven.

For all one might suspect
there to be affinity, what struck with the opening of the Rosenkavalier Suite – yes, I am afraid, the wretched 1945 assemblage,
to whom no one ever seems to have owned up – was difference. A glistening edge
returned to the orchestra. Romanticism was dead; modernist phantasmagoria – and
what phantasmagoria! – was enthroned in
all its assiduously pictorial glory. There was no doubt what was being depicted
in the Prelude’s thrusting and afterglow. Even without voices, the Presentation
of the Rose was well handled. Valčuha could not paper over some of the later
cracks, but I am not sure that anyone has ever been able to do so. At least we
got to enjoy the luck of the Lerchenaus with a decent swagger and lilt.

I hope that we shall hear
more from this conductor, both in the concert hall and in the opera house. Both
ENO and the Royal Opera would be well advised to offer him engagements.